Page 20 of Elevator Pitch

“What the hell was that?” Kip Garcia asks. My pitching coach stares at me, a puzzled expression on his face.

Over the years, Kip and I met many times on the field. As rival pitchers, he was my nemesis before he became a friend. He left the ball field for the sidelines long before I did, and he’s become a mentor of sorts. He’s one reason I have my new position as manager of the Chicago Anchors. He put the bug in the front office’s ear to hire me and I’m forever grateful to him.

And because of him and the opportunity the Anchors have given me, I don’t want to disappoint him. Our three-game losing streak against Colorado, followed by a losing streak against Cleveland until today, has been embarrassing. I typically don’t get rattled by these things. Losses suck but this is spring training. We have an entire season before us. The team in March will not be the same team in October. Still, I need to iron out some kinks now, especially issues between Sylver and Valdez.

“What the hell was what?” I scoff.

“That noise.” Kip wrinkles his nose while he watches me.

“What noise?”

“That little puff of air. Was that . . .” He pauses for dramatic effect and scrunches his nose again. “. . . a laugh?” He chuckles himself.

“I laugh,” I counter.

“Not often.” His brows lift while he observes me.

“There isn’t time for laughter in baseball.”

“The saying is about crying, and I’ve seen plenty of tears from you on the mound over the years,” he jests.

“You’re full of shit.” I am not a crying man.

“Better than being full of myself.”

The knock takes me down a peg. I never want to come across as arrogant or cocky. Baseball is a team sport, and my position here is a fresh start. I’m home on a ball field. But I’ll be missing my boys.

Harley is a freshman at DePaul. Landon is a junior at Purdue.

“We won,” I remind Kip, but we have a long way to go with only one win under our belt.

Kip gives me a knowing gaze before tipping up his chin. “What was that with me playing messenger? You know we have people for that shit.” His eyes narrow, assuming I passed my phone number to a woman in the stands.

Only I didn’t. I should have but that isn’t who Vee and me are. We didn’t exchange numbers. We didn’t mention where we lived. We only briefly brushed on what we did.

She is a romance author, but I didn’t find any books with her name on them on bookstore shelves. Heck, I don’t typically enter bookstores, but I’d been drawn to one in my new neighborhood once I was hired by the Anchors. When I asked the clerk about Verona Huxley, she couldn’t find the name in their database, and I accepted Verona might have been a fake name given to me by the stranger whose room I’d entered and then crashed in her bed.

“What did she say?” I try to school my voice, attempting not to sound too eager to know if Vee remembers our night together.

“She said, and I quote. . .” He pauses while I wait with bated breath. “Thank you.”

“That’s it.”

“She also said good game.” His monotone voice has me arching a brow, teetering with anticipation for more.

“She also mentioned how I shouldn’t ever have to deliver a message like a schoolboy passing notes again. And she thought I was hot.”

I snort. “Okay. Now you’re just being a dick.”

Kip chuckles. “Seriously, who is she?”

I shake my head. How could I explain Vee?

“Are you fucking blushing?”

“What? No.” However, I slap my hands to my cheeks, feeling a twinge of heat.

“What you are is gullible.” Kip laughs harder, picking up his iPad and tapping his finger against it. “And we have tape to watch.”